


Muted Pulsation

by Luana Araceli (Luana_Araceli)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hierarchy, Original Characters - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:49:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luana_Araceli/pseuds/Luana%20Araceli





	Muted Pulsation

Quentin strode into the room, eyes narrowed. "Get your things," he snapped. 

I grabbed a duffel bag, throwing clothes in haphazardly. I'd never seen him angry and I didn't want to risk making it worse. Taking a cursory look around the room, I hid a flinch at the scowl on his face. 

"Take some care," he said. "We have enough time for you to fold your clothes properly." 

I flushed and removed everything I'd placed in the bag and started over. Carelessness was his biggest pet peeve and with him in this mood...well. Better not to risk it. "Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere. I'm sending you to the Safe House." 

The Safe House? Why was he sending me there? I wasn't the greatest fighter, but I wasn't so weak I needed the protection of a Safe House. My thoughts must have shown on my face. 

"Don't argue," he said. "The Pulse is dead. He didn't appoint a successor. I need you out of the way." 

I stared at him for a solid minute before I regained a portion of my composure. "He's dead?" 

"Yes. Hurry and finish packing. There's only two hours left of true-dark. I need you safe before then." 

The implications of the Pulse having died without appointing a successor caught up to me. "There's going to be War," I whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed, packing all but forgotten. That was bad. That was very bad. 

Quentin snorted. "War is the least of our problems, Damon. If it were that simple, there'd be no reason for me to send you to a Safe House." 

 "What do you mean?" 

"The Pulse's death left a power vacuum since no one was appointed his successor. All three Veins will vie for the title. And your disability makes you our greatest weakness. If one of the other Veins were to-" 

"I get it," I interrupted. "How long do I have to stay there?" 

Quentin raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I taught you better manners," he said, his voice ice.

My insides froze. That tone gave me nightmares. I tilted my head to the side, lowering my eyes as I exposed my jugular. "I'm sorry," I said. At the sight of his hand inching towards my throat, I closed my eyes and tried not to breathe. The feel of his hand against my neck sent fear tingling down my spine.

His grip on my throat was light, but firm. "You will behave properly or I will find the time to correct you. Am I understood?" 

I swallowed against his hand and opened my eyes, daring to look him in the eye. "Yes, Sire," I said, voice soft. 

Quentin nodded and released my throat. "Your disability weakens us. You'll need to stay at the Safe House until the greatest part of the war is over." 

I swallowed back my anger. This war was vital for our vein. Winning meant gaining the power to decide our course in history. To decide to stay hidden in the shadows as we had for millennia or to emerge into the human world and declare our dominance. It was a dangerous debate --one that would have deadly consequences if the faction considering exposure won out. 

"I've called Branson," Quentin continued. "He'll be here to escort you when he's done rousing the Capillaries." 

The Capillaries was the army of our Vein, an army of fledges that slept until called. It didn't strike me how serious a disadvantage my disability was until they were mentioned. Even fledges were stronger than me when it came to fighting. I lowered my eyes, hiding the distress that knowledge caused. "I'll be ready," I said, continuing to pack. 

Quentin didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was gentle, as if he expected me to bolt from the room. "I know you've been working on it, Damon. Branson's told me all the methods you've tried. I hate none of them worked. If they had--" he trailed off. 

He didn't have to finish. I knew what he meant. Out of the High Blood, I was the best strategist. My instinct for tactics was so impressive it was considered the gift my vampiric blood had given me. But my disability made that obsolete. Not being able to digest human blood made my existence little more than a hindrance. 

"There are no methods left," I said. "We tried all the ones in the Histories." It made me angry, remembering those books. Other vampires in our Vein had been afflicted with the same condition, but every single one of them had found a solution. I slammed the closet door shut harder than I meant to and flinched as the room shook. 

"It is frustrating. You are more suited to leading battles than Branson is, but he is a more capable fighter and we can't risk losing your expertise to the enemy." 

Those words made me freeze. Unlike the other High Blood, I'd not been trained to resist interrogation if captured. Knowing what methods were used caused my objections to die unvoiced. The Safe House suddenly seemed like the perfect place. "I know," I said, sighing. I didn't want to be tortured anymore than Quentin wanted to see me captured, but the frustration of knowing I couldn't do anything to help my Vein was high. 

"Maybe when the war is won, we can research more methods," he said in an attempt to console me. "I'm sure there are things you and Branson haven't tried." 

I snorted, not bothering to conceal disdain. Branson was three centuries old--if there were methods he hadn't heard of, there was probably good reason. He was our Vein's authority on this disability--he'd helped cure seven of the ten listed in the Histories. And even though those methods had all been dead-ends where I was concerned, he was as determined as me to find an end to my frailty. 

Quentin sighed. I hoped that meant he'd given up trying to make me feel better. Consolation wasn't exactly a vampire's strength. 

Even thinking of strength forced me to bare fangs, other teeth gritted so I wouldn't accidentally slice through my lip. Blood was strength. To have all the knowledge and none of the power to back it up was beyond frustrating.

“Branson should be here soon,” Quentin said. An awkward silence fell between us. I didn’t have to turn around to know he had his hands in the pockets of his favored red trench coat.

“The other Veins will expect you to send me to a Safe House,” I pointed out. “My disability is infamous.”

Quentin frowned. “They won’t be able to get to you.”

“Not true,” I said. “The protection they offer won’t stop a serious attack.”

The smell of distress filled the room as it spiked his blood. He paced across it, brow furrowed. “What else can I do?” he asked. “I can’t keep you with us. That’s painting a target on your back. Now you’re telling me I’m doing the same if I send you to a Safe House.”

I stayed silent. I knew better than to interrupt when he was thinking. The scar across my right shoulder was proof of that.

He stopped and looked at me, his gaze piercing. “Any suggestions?”

“Send me somewhere else,” I said. I’d been waiting for him to ask.

“Where? We have no blood-kin who can shelter you.”

“An allied Vein far away from the conflict, perhaps?”

“No! Doing that will pull them into our war. I’m not getting a Vein from another Pulse mixed up in this. Things are complicated enough.”

“Not even the Hamptons?”

Horror flashed across his face. “Absolutely not. They’d eat you alive.”

He had a point. The Hamptons were old-fashioned. If I’d been turned to their Vein, I’d have been executed as soon as my disability was discovered. “Fine,” I said, giving in. “I’ll go to the Safe House. But I still think it’s a mistake.”

“Noted,” he said, falling silent.

Neither of us moved, settling instead into perfect stillness as we waited for Branson. I hated being alone with my Sire when he was like this. His concern for my safety was stifling. Knowing how much I resembled the human son he’d lost made it worse. 

I stared across the room at him, maintaining the silence. In decades past, I would’ve looked for words to fill that silence, to make the quiet less intense. Now I stared.

Time passed. The clock on the mantel behind me marked the seconds as we stood there, eyes locked on one another. I counted along in my head, but lost count after 921. Over fifteen minutes and Branson hadn’t shown up.

What was keeping him? Rousing the Capillaries took five minutes at best. Worry flickered through me, but Quentin’s composure helped me keep mine. If something happened, he would know.

I broke eye contact and turned around to read the clock. 3:35. Quentin had barged in at 3:02. Less than an hour and a half remained before true-dark ended at 5am. The Safe House was an hour’s run from here. Branson was cutting it close.

“He’ll be here in time.” Quentin echoed my thoughts.

“And if he isn’t?” 

“He’ll be on time,” he said, baring his fangs in a light snarl.

I shuddered. I wouldn’t want to be in Branson’s shoes if he failed to appear on schedule. With Quentin in this mood, my blood-brother wouldn’t get off lightly.

More time passed. My anxiety grew by the minute. The disability I had made traveling outside the hours of true-dark impossible. If I were caught by sunlight, even the weakest rays, I’d be out of commission for a month, if not longer. My body wasn’t strong enough to handle the exposure. Without human blood, it was going to take two to three centuries to develop an immunity to sunlight. 

Quentin scowled as the clock struck 4. Branson was absent. “He’d better have a good reason.” 

“He does,” I said, certain of it. Branson would never do something to purposely upset our Sire. He worshipped Quentin. 

“He’d better.” 

I sighed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I looked pointedly at the packed bag on my bed. “Do I still need this?” 

“No,” Quentin said. “We missed our window. We’ll have to find another way to keep you safe.” 

I kept the relief I felt to myself. I’d spent a month at a Safe House years ago. It wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. Still, it was difficult not to point out that he'd just finished saying the Safe House was our only option. The self-discipline he'd inflicted on me was the only thing that stilled my tongue. I swallowed, remembering the feel of his hand around my throat. Tonight was not a good night to test him. 

It hit 4:30 before Branson burst into the room, scowling. "The Capillaries are roused," he said, directing his attention to Quentin.

"You're late." 

Branson flinched at the harsh tone and I winced in sympathy. He dropped gracefully to his knees in front of Quentin and angled his neck to the side, baring his throat. "I'm sorry, Sire," he said. 

"Give me your reasons." Quentin stared down at the man in front of him, eyes unyielding. I crossed my fingers behind me, hoping fervently that I wasn't about to witness Branson being punished in front of me. I knew it happened, everyone did. That was how our Sire enforced the Vein's laws. But we didn't speak of the whippings and having a witness to one was mortifying. 

"A messenger came ten minutes after you left me to rouse the Capillaries," Branson said calmly. "He told me that the Renders had burned down the Safe House. I went and checked." 

Shock lit Quentin's face. "The Safe House was burned?" 

"Yes," Branson said. "There is no longer a way for us to keep him from this war." He motioned in my direction. 

I blanched. If the Renders had already moved to the Safe House..."They're not going after the Pierces first," I whispered, the implication of that sinking in. The Renders always fought the Pierces before our Vein. It was a fact that hadn't changed for ten millennia. So why now? What were they after? 

Branson nodded grimly and, after glancing to Quentin for permission, rose to his feet and turned to face me. "They've burned down two of the Safe Houses in our area. You're the tactical genius, Damon. What are they going to target next?"  

"After the Safe Houses," I said, feeling numb. "They're going to come after me." 

"What?!" Quentin and Branson yelled. 

"It's the only thing that makes sense." I sat down on the bed, shock making my legs heavier than normal. "They're vying for the Pulse's seat. The first thing they do is eliminate the weak. Usually," I said, looking up and meeting Quentin's piercing gaze. "That means they go after the Pierces. But my disability makes me the weakest vampire in the Pulse. So it stands to reason that they alter their strategy and come after me instead." 

Branson scowled. "You're a nuisance," he said. 

I flinched. That was true, but it hurt to hear. "I'm sorry," I said, hanging my head. 

"We can't take him on the field with us," Branson said, hands planted on his hips as he glared at me. I inched back on the bed. "It would be worse than having the fledges with us. He's useless." 

Quentin snarled low in his throat, drawing Branson's attention. The color drained from my blood brother's face as he turned to face our Sire. For the second time in the space of an hour I watched him fall to his knees, lowering his eyes in submission as he titled his neck towards Quentin. Whatever he'd seen at the Safe House had really shaken him up. He never acted out like this. 

Fear curled my stomach, making me nauseous. It took a lot to make Branson afraid. As the General of our army, he had little to fear. What had he seen at that burnt down building to make him risk disappointing the man he worshipped? I tried to force my tremors to subside. To show fear in front of my family would be pathetic. They already looked down on me because of my condition; no need to add something else for them to torment me with. 

"You done?" Quentin asked, the words calm. Too calm. 

Branson swallowed, his carotid artery pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The rapid rise and fall made me shudder against the desire for blood it invoked. His fear was intoxicating. A vampire's aphrodisiac. "Yes, Sire," he said softly. 

The tense set of Quentin's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Tell me, Bran, what is it that makes our Vein strong?" 

"Solidarity." The answer was immediate. Branson knew he was on thin ice. When our Sire got like this, it usually meant a whipping. He couldn't afford to be punished in front of me. 

"Thank you. Now, Damon has a difficult condition. But he is an important part of our family. You will remember that before you insult him." 

"Yes, Sire," Branson said. He managed to keep still as Quentin circled him, maintaining a hair's-breadth of distance as he did so.

"Am I interrupting anything important?" A man with piercing blue eyes peered around the door, which Branson had left ajar when he'd entered. 

Caden. He was my other blood-brother, the only other High Blood in the Vein. But he was different. He kept to himself most of the time and didn't engage in the hunting games both Quentin and Branson were fond of. He was our Sire's favorite. His second-hand man. It made Branson jealous with envy, but it filled me with unease. I knew nearly nothing of him. 

"Of course not. Come in," Quentin said, taking a step back from Branson. Caden's very presence eased his displeasure.

Caden stepped into the room, taking a seat beside me on the bed. I tensed as the bed sank with his weight. He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn't comment on it. I breathed a sigh of relief. Like Branson, he was a Progenate, which ranked him higher than me. At one-hundred forty, I was a Childe. It took three centuries to earn the Progenate rank. 

"What are we discussing?" Caden asked. 

"Solidarity," Quentin said. 

"Was he picking on you again?" Caden turned to me, his blue eyes intense as he searched my face for an answer. 

I squirmed. I didn't want to get Branson into any trouble, but I knew better than to lie to Caden. As the Second, he had the right to administer punishment. "Yes," I said. 

Caden turned back to the others and I breathed easier. He unnerved me. "I thought you fixed this," he said, addressing Quentin. The mild accusation in his tone made me flinch. No one else could talk to our Sire like that. 

"So did I." 

Branson trembled where he knelt. Having Quentin's anger directed at him was bad enough, but to have Caden's as well...it was unthinkable. I shuddered. 

"What set him off?" Caden asked. 

"We were discussing what to do with Damon since the Safe House was burned down," Quentin said. 

"The Safe House was burned down?" 

"Yeah. The Renders got to it," Branson said. Contributing something constructive eased his fear. 

"That's no good," Caden said. "I haven't trained Damon to fight. It will be hard to work around him if we take him on the field with us."

"What other choice do we have?" Quentin asked. 

"There are no other Veins we can send him to. The Hamptons would eat him alive and all the others are too close. They'll get pulled into the War. What about the Day Walkers? Can one of them shelter him?" 

The Day Walkers. I shuddered with revulsion. Human servants. I wanted nothing to do with them. But speaking up would do me no good. Where I went was their decision, not mine. As a Childe, my only option was obedience. Anything less...well, I'd learned my lesson there. 

"No," Quentin said. "I absolutely refuse to put him into the hands of those incompetent mongrels." There was a light snarl to the words, but it was directed at the Day Walkers. He hated them as much as I did; maybe more. 

Caden held up a hand. "Sorry, forget I mentioned them. There isn't much choice at all," he said. "He'll have to stand with us." 

"He can't," Branson snarled. "His weakness will cost us the War." 

"Caden." Quentin's voice was stone.

"Yes, Sire?" Caden had noticed the shift. He was a genius with protocol. It always impressed me how fluidly he slid from his role as Second to his role as Progenate. 

"Your belt, please." 

The bed shifted as he stood, pulling his belt from his pants in a practiced motion. I flinched watching it. I'd been at the end of that belt more times than I cared to remember. Caden held it by the supple end, holding the buckle out for Quentin to take as he dropped to one knee, bowing his head in front of our Sire. 

Quentin took the belt from him and tapped his shoulder. At the tap, Caden stood with his head still bowed, backed up three paces and sat down beside me. The whole thing had taken five seconds, but Caden performed the protocol perfectly. I had to admit I was jealous. To have that much fluidity from one set of protocol to another...there was a reason Caden unnerved me. 

"Take off your shirt and brace yourself against the wall," Quentin said. 

Branson got to his feet, trembling. He took his shirt off and tossed it on the bed before going to the wall and placing his hands against it, bending over until his back was parallel with his feet. He dropped his head between his shoulders, his fangs buried in the leather bit Quentin placed in his mouth. 

Quentin unfurled the belt in his hand and swung it a few times, testing the weight. He gave a short nod when he was done and took his position beside Branson. Forcing Branson to bend at the waist to take punishment meant the belt would hurt more because gravity would aid Quentin's swing. 

I wanted to look away. Public punishment was beyond humiliating. I kept my eyes glued to my brother's back. He'd earned this for degrading me. If I refused to watch, I'd be denouncing my importance to our Vein. I couldn't do that. And if I did...well, I had no desire to join my brother against the wall. 

The belt fell across Branson's back. He jerked with the force of it, but kept his hands firmly against the wall. If his hands moved during punishment, the belt would feel like mercy. Three strokes fell in rapid succession before Quentin paused. "Tell me why you deserve this," he said. 

Branson drew in a ragged breath before he answered. "I disrespected our Vein by degrading my brother." The words were quiet, but laced with guilt. I hid my surprise. The guilt was unexpected. 

"Good," Quentin said. He threw another stroke across Branson's shoulders. "Do you know what message it sends to the other Veins if we are divided amongst ourselves?" 

"That we're weak," Branson said. 

"And what does degrading your brother do to our Vein?" Quentin asked. He was really driving the point home. With the War drawing near, I understood why, even if it made me wince in sympathy every time another lash landed on Branson's back. 

"S-separates us," Branson said. "Tells the oth-other Veins that we're." He gasped as another sharp lash landed. "That we're weak." 

"Your actions, then," Quentin said. "Are the detriment to our Vein. Not Damon's condition. You accept this?" 

"Yes, Sire," Branson said, the words coming out a strangled scream. I'd lost count how many lashes Quentin had laid down, but Branson's back was red with welts. In some spots, blood pooled just below the surface. I winced. Branson would need to feed to heal that before the Renders got here. 

"Good," Quentin said. He handed Caden the belt and his Second slid it back into his pants, making no comment. "You'll hold that position for two hours."

"Yes, Sire," Branson said. 

I exhaled, surprised to find I'd been holding my breath. An idea was starting to form in the back of my mind, but I knew better than to suggest anything with the atmosphere so tense. 

"What do we do with him?" Caden asked, motioning to me even as his eyes were trained on our Sire. "His lack of training will limit the strategies we can employ. The Renders are known for their ruthlessness. They will target him first." 

"I don't know," Quentin said, running a hand through his hair. "The situation is complicated. With no Safe House, there is no protection for him. We can't send him away but we can't keep him with us. What else is there?" 

I started to speak, then hesitated. I wasn't sure my idea would be well-received. It was one that had been in the back of my mind for a long time, ever since I'd heard the rumors, but I'd viciously shoved it aside. I'd not wanted to live on false hope. 

Caden eyed me. "What is it, Damon?" he asked. 

His piercing gaze unnerved me and I squirmed in my seat. Now I had no choice. I had to tell them. If I didn't--a glance in Branson's direction told me what was waiting for me. "I've heard rumors," I said slowly. 

"Go on," Quentin said, eyes lighting up with interest. "What kind of rumors?" 

"I've heard rumors," I repeated. "Of a vampire who lives in the south. It is said that he needs no blood to survive and that he is one of the strongest of our kind in the world. And from what I've heard, he doesn't belong to a Pulse." 

"With no Pulse, there'd be no risk of getting him involved in the War," Caden said, hand tucked under his chin as he thought. "How deep south are we talking?" 

"Florida." 

"That's 3,000 miles from here," Quentin said. "A trip like that would take two full days of driving and you can't handle sunlight." 

I swallowed against the hope that had blossomed in my chest when the two of them started talking like they were considering it. I could only handle true-dark, which started at nine at night and lasted until five in the morning. At eight hours of driivng, a forty-eight hour trip would take six days minimum. And that was with non-stop driving. With rest stops and potential setbacks taken into account, it could easily take up to fourteen days just to get there. 

"It's worth thinking about," Caden said. "The Renders made their move. They won't move against us until we answer theirs with one of our own. If we don't respond to the provocation, they may go after the Pierces first." 

I shook my head. "The only way they'll go after the Pierces is if we do something to them that will make them reconsider their idea our Vein is weaker than the Pierces." 

Quentin raised an eyebrow.

I flushed as I realized I'd spoken out of turn. I didn't apologize for it. I was the tactical genius of the family. All three of them acknowledged that. Speaking against a bad tactic was my right. 

"Okay," Quentin said. "When you've finished reflecting on your actions, Bran, I want you to lead the Capillaries to the Render farms and destroy them." He turned to me. "Will that be enough?" 

"Yes," I said, smiling. "That should do nicely." The farms he was talking about were the human farms where the Renders raised their own livestock. It was a practice we found abhorrent because the thrill of the chase didn't exist. We lived for the hunt. The Renders tranced humans and bred them for blood type. 

"We'll talk more about the bloodless vampire tomorrow," Quentin said, glancing at the clock. 4:45. "It was time you were under." 

"Yes, Sire," I said. I slipped from my room under his watchful gaze, aware that Caden was staring at my back as I left. I walked through the hall and opened the door to the stairs that led to the basement, taking the stairs four at a time. 

Once I was in the basement, I entered the first room on the left. It was barren except for a small twin-size bed covered in black satin sheets. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all painted black as well. It was the perfect sleeping place. I slid in-between the covers with a soft sigh and closed my eyes, the hope I'd felt stirring blossoming into desire to find the vampire who lived without blood. I fell asleep dreaming of it.


End file.
